She was little and sweet. Red hair and blue eyes. The nurses called her bright eyes.
Her father said, “She’s not a Tonya, she’s a Suzanne.”
She always liked her name.
She was not like the others. The ones with brown hair, and names like Tim and Tammy.
She was the baby of the family.
She was different.
“How old are you?”
“What’s your favorite thing to do?”
I don’t know. I like to draw and climb trees I guess.
“Where did you get your red hair?”
My mom says it’s from my aunt on my dad’s side.
“You are very small for your age.”
Yeah. I like being little. It’s fun.
I take after my grandma.
I hate this town. And everything about it. With a name like Pittsfield, I’m embarrassed to even tell people where I’m from. All anybody ever does here is gossip. Their own lives are so pathetic they end up talking about everybody else’s pathetic lives.
And my dad. He never says a word. He just sits there like a zombie in his recliner watching Benny Hill or The MacNeil/Lehrer Report. Sometimes I want to sneak up behind him, shake him, and yell “Snap out of it!”
I think I must have been adopted.
Or maybe I came from another planet and was dropped here as a test.
I spend most of my time in my bedroom dreaming about life after high school. Or boys. Or both.
My soul is caged and I cannot breathe. I only have three months left in this prison.
I know I’m destined for greater things.
I can’t wait for the weekend so I can get high.
She’s quiet. Seems very private. But nice. And friendly.
I don’t know much about her. I think she must be a good mom though.
I always see her out walking with her kids.
I think that may be all she cares about. Her kids, that is.
Prose Poetry inspired by All the Catharines, by Amanda Earl, FOUR
Copyright Suzanne Norton 2016